He yanks the rope, and I stumble forward, cringing as the frozen earth bites at my palms and the stays stab at my flesh. I wrap my fingers around a loose stone in the trail, and as I crawl to my feet, I keep the rock cupped tightly, hidden from view.
“I got my reasons for doing what I do,” the Rose Kid snarls, his dead eyes locked with mine. “I don’t care if’n you understand, ’cus right now, alls you gotta know is one of Boss’s men is on my tail and he will gladly kill you before taking me back to Boss. I gotta run to where they’ll never find me, and if they do, I’m gonna need a damn compelling reason for why I’d done run.”
He grabs me by the meaty part of my arms, pushes me toward the coach. My legs hit the step and I walk up it backwards, falling on my rump inside the carriage because I refuse to expose the rock in exchange for bracing my fall.
“So unless you know who killed Luther’s brother,” the Rose Kid continues, towering in the doorway, “you are absolutely worthless to me. Be happy I’m bothering to keep you alive. It ain’t a kindness the rest of Boss’s men will allow.”
There is sincere worry in his voice as he looks back the way we’ve traveled. I don’t believe that he is innocent of his crimes. What sort of man rides with men like those in Rose’s gang for more than three years if he doesn’t truly want to be there? Madmen. Monsters. Fools who wear a brand like cattle because maybe they don’t know how to think for themselves.
But I do believe that the Rose Kid is running from them, to whatever end. He has indeed kept me breathing when others may have killed me or left me to freeze in the mountains, but only because I will serve as his armor. I will be his shield—quite literally—if folk confront him in Prescott. He will use my life to barter for his.
And so I will use my words to barter for my own.
I’ve heard enough rumors about Waylan Rose’s death to fill a novel, read enough speculation about his men’s demise ten years past to make up my own account. And if an old schoolyard rumor will buy my freedom, well, I don’t care quite so much about the facts.
I won’t be a journalist today, I’ll be a writer of fiction. I’ll deal in whispers and sensations and legends.
“I know who killed him!” I blurt out, and the Rose Kid freezes, a hand on the door he intends to swing shut. “I know who killed your boss’s brother.”
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
Reece
I catch the door at the last second, keeping it from slamming shut.
“You what?”
“I know who killed Waylan Rose.”
I reckon I must look shocked as all can be, ’cus she keeps on yammering.
“I’ve read an awful lot of literature on the topic. I want to be a journalist, so I’ve devoured just about every newspaper I could get my hands on. And when Waylan died, everyone reported that the gang was disbanded, that the plains would be safer. When the first accounts of robberies at the hands of a man claiming to be Waylan’s half brother reached the paper, everyone panicked. Father was convinced the gang was back in full force, that they’d challenge his rail project in Prescott. There wasn’t a day I spent as a child not hearing him bemoan and worry that—”
“Just skip to the part ’bout who did it,” I snap.
Charlotte—no, I’m calling her Vaughn now—ain’t dumb. After her stunt on the train and how she got us pinched in Wickenburg, that much is certain. But this is exactly what’s troubling. She’s smart enough to try to con me, and I ain’t got time to waste. Crawford’s on my tail. He must not’ve been hurt as bad as I thought, ’cus when I got the coach moving before dawn, there it were again—that red coat, bobbing in the distance. He’s gaining on me. And while I could prolly manage the rest of the descent into Prescott bareback, Vaughn can’t, and I ain’t ’bout to leave her to a fate at Crawford’s hands.
“Well, it’s more of a theory,” she says.
“A theory? I don’t care ’bout theories. I care ’bout facts.”
She shrugs. “Then I’ll just keep this to myself.”
I glance the way we come, then toward Prescott. Chasing a theory is still gonna sound better to Boss than running.
“Fine, what is it? Quickly.”
“There was a Prescott homesteader who supposedly got himself killed by the Rose Riders. His daughter hired a gunslinger to get justice.”
“What’s the gunslinger’s name?”
“I don’t know. No one does.”
It’s all too convenient, another could-be and might-have, a trail like all the others Boss chased over the years. Chances are he’s prolly even chased this one already.
“I was only six when this all happened,” she continues, “but my father wasn’t good at whispering when he discussed things with my mother. And his theories matched what some of the children said at school. You don’t forget rumors like that.”
“I think yer lying. About all of it.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs. “But it seems to me that a man seeking the truth would follow a lead to its end. What harm can it do to find the daughter and ask her yourself? The gunslinger she hired is the man your boss wants.”
Goddammit, she’s right. On the off chance she’s telling the truth, well, I’d be a fool to keep running. I could get the gunslinger’s name or, better yet, him. He could live right in town. I could have the prize in my grasp when Crawford catches me. My fleeing won’t look suspicious if’n I have the killer. It’ll look brave, daring, loyal. I do this one final job, and then I’ll be free, truly. ’Cus I know sure as hell, they ain’t gonna quit coming for me.
“The girl who hired the gunslinger—what’s her name?”
“Thompson?” Vaughn says, only it comes out a question.
“You think, or you know?”
“I’m pretty certain.”
“Where’s she live?”
“If I tell you, you have to let me go.”
“Yeah, yeah. You tell me where I can find the girl, and I’ll let you go, but only if you give yer word you won’t go running to the Law.” I spit in my hand and hold it out. She stares at my palm. I can almost hear the gears churning in her head. Is making a deal with the Rose Kid smart? No. Is she putting the Thompson girl in danger even if all I’m after is the hired man? Prolly. When a Rose Rider touches yer life, even with the slightest brush, it only leads to bad things.
“Do we have a deal or don’t we?”
“All right,” she says finally. She spits in her palm, and we shake.
“So where’s she live?”
“Lived,” she corrects. “She lived on Granite Creek, first homestead past Fort Whipple, big mesquite out front.”
“Lived! You saying she’s dead?”
“No. She moved, barely a month before we left for Yuma. Father said she was headed for Wickenburg.”
I slam the coach door shut, fastening it in place.
“What are you doing?” Vaughn shouts. “We had a deal! You said I could go. “
“Yeah, but I never specified where or when. A ride to Wickenburg’ll kill these poor horses, and besides, I think yer lying. I think you intend to alert folk in Prescott, and then I’ll be caught between the capital and Wickenburg, lawmen bearing down on me from both directions.”
Plus, heading directly into Crawford’s arms, which ain’t where I’m fond of being.